His Dearest Blogger
by Jemmi221b
Summary: After the pool. All three men survived the explosion. Now, Sherlock and John must again follow a web of bizarre crimes back to Moriarty, who is ready for another game.  Will be bromance, NO SLASH, sorry
1. Intro

Something warm and unknown pooled from underneath him —alarmingly chilling—and despite his every intention, he could not move. A force was grabbing at his arms and pulling from all directions, and as he thrashed about looking for an escape, his head merely swam in darkness. Slowly but surely, what was a black conscience, grew even darker—his vision being completely disabled. Sherlock had never experienced such a state of darkness before. The very thought of it sent his heart plummeting and his brow to sweat.

_John_—was all he could think of. _I have to get to John_—Sherlock waved his arms in a desperate attempt to wade to his injured colleague-

_**no...his FRIEND-**_

Much to his dismay, the harder he swam the less he seemed to accomplish anything; the grip on his shoulders and legs only becoming tighter and tighter. Sherlock's natural response to analyze and deduce what he could from his situation seemed to escape him—his brain shut off to everything and anything other than what he was doing at that moment, and that was to find John.

He could hear John, yes. He could hear his shallow breathing, his whimpering in the very near distance. It was a soft, pleading sob that rose and fell in intensity and emotion, wailing like a ghost; calling his very name. Sherlock swallowed hard, tasting a coppery, hot, and sticky fluid in his throat.

Nothing frightens Sherlock Holmes._ Nothing,_

_**except for this…**_

Sherlock gathered every ounce of strength he could find within him, and used it to turn his brain back on. With just a mental click, thoughts flooded back into Sherlock's mind, lighting the darkness that surrounded him. Instantly, he deduced that the bomb had indeed gone off. Had he really shot that semtek vest? Apparently so—judging by the smell of burnt flesh and hair, and of smoke. He however, couldn't understand why he was still alive—surely the blast would have killed both he and John almost as soon as it happened?

_And Moriarty_, Sherlock scowled, though no one could see his expression. If he was still alive, then does that mean Moriarty was alive as well? Sherlock attempted to frown, but it was too painful to do so. The bomb had gone off. He needed to find John._ Where the bloody hell was he? _Sherlock struggled. Were his eyes open? He couldn't tell. Everything was so dark—perhaps he'd gone blind?

A scream rose from within the darkness, and sent chills down Sherlock's spine. Even though it was blood-curdled, he could recognize the voice very well. Sherlock's mind went frantic for a moment, and despite every ache and pain within him he cried out, hearing his own, deep and rigid voice for the first time since..._since when? He sounded awful-_

"John? John? Where are you," Sherlock's voice soon became shrill, compensating for the lack of movement his body had so grudgingly befit upon him. The pain was overwhelming all of a sudden, and he could for a few seconds hear only the blood in his ears; feel the broken and shattered bones in his body as he lie on his back on the wet tile floor; the hot blood on his face and hands—In such a rush as the pain hit him, he did his best to roll onto his side so he did not choke while he wretched a mixture of blood and whatever it was he had for supper.

Dizzy;_ exhausted... _his mind fogged over again, but he could hear John screaming still—screaming bloody murder. _What was happening to him?_ Sherlock begged, and as he tried to call out again. His throat betrayed him. What was supposed to be a shout for his comrade, turned into some pitiful hiccup-like sound; he began to sob between shouts. Unable to move—to locate or help John—Sherlock continued to call out to him until after what he considered to, in fact, have been forever. Slowly, against his every fiber of will and determination, he lost consciousness— John's now soft moans fading with it.

Another nightmare...

John hugged his pillow as best as he could, even if just for a few moments longer. He could hear Sherlock. He was having another nightmare... about that night at the pool. _Poor Sherlock... _As often as he had tried to tell him that the events of that night were not his fault, Sherlock just wouldn't hear it. They had both already recovered from thier initial injuries- broken bones, severe burns- But Sherlock kept on getting nightmares, re-living the worst of that night.

Lestrade, upon Mycroft and Sarah's advice, and upon the news of the explosion, had gone out with a team of men. They arrived only a few minutes after the explosion- though, John admits- It felt like forever.

They said, later, as both he and Sherlock recovered in a pair of hospital beds, that they never found any traces of the ghosts that haunted them that night. No snipers, gunmen... no Moriarty.

**nothing but he and Sherlock, lying broken, burned, and bleeding amidst shrapnel and flames...**

John sighed, and sat up. He could still feel the sorness of his burns, the brittleness of his hardly-healed bones. Placing his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands, he breathed deeply. He could hear Sherlock still. The quiet, agitated groans and sobs of a man who everyone thought had no heart. John knew that was a stupid assumption. _Of course Sherlock had a heart. People are stupid._ John smirked to himself- he could imagine Sherlock saying such a thing- _so stupid._

John heaved a sigh once more, and rose out of bed and put the tea kettle on. He walked into Sherlock's room, to try and comfort him as he had done many times within the past six months. He pulled up a chair to the restlessly sleeping man's bedside and sat, talking softly and soothingly, bringing two cups of tea. One, to keep him awake, and the other, just in case.


	2. Chapter 1

John awoke with a start. He was confused to find himself slumped over onto Sherlock's bed, a pool of drool forming from the corning of his mouth. He snapped up, groggy and embarrassed._ I must have fallen asleep..._ He rubbed his eyes, exhausted. He had stayed up for a good couple of hours last night, reading and blogging about nothing in order to pass the time, while he had waited for Sherlock to calm and drift into a peaceful sleep.

John looked around the room. Sherlock's bed was empty, and the two cups of tea John had brought in were both empty as well. Sherlock must have drank it when he woke- but it must have been horridly cold. John frowned. Sherlock's mental health had been exhausted lately. It was all John could do for the man- to convince him to get a few hours of sleep. Sherlock never slept, and the exhaustion had been written plainly and visibly upon his face. His eyes were often distant, bags underneath them. He was less coherent than ever, and was even having trouble solving what he would have once considered to be the simplest of cases.

John was worried. He knew the detective to be witty; full of enthusiasm-even when bored. He seemed to be depressed, or something... John tried to diagnose Sherlock's mental state, but was otherwise clueless.

John walked into the sitting room of their flat, expecting to see Sherlock sprawled on the couch, staring into nothingness. He wasn't. John's brow furrowed in confusion and he rounded the corner, peaking into the kitchen where he then expected to find Sherlock bent over some sort of experiment, dirtying the , not here either... John's stomach dipped a little. Sherlock wasn't there, but he calmed himself, knowing that he had probably just gone out for a walk, or-_ Aha. A note..._ John hummed in content as picked the small slip of paper from the counter, and began read Sherlock's nearly illegible handwriting.

blockquote

h3JOHN-

GONE TO GET MILK. AND BEANS.

-SH/h3/blockquote

John tilted his head in thought. _How very... unusual..._ He blinked, and shoved the confusion out of his mind, accepting Sherlock's kind gesture. Neither of us have gone shopping in quite a stretch, anyhow.

John set the kettle on the stove, and went to sit on the sofa, first retrieving his laptop from Sherlock's room. Situated on the armchair in his coziest jumper, John opened his laptop, and decided to waste some time checking his emails and his blog.

There was nothing of interest. Some spam; an email from Stamford; an email from Mycroft asking about Sherlock; inappropriate comments on his blog left by his dear Harry. He sighed and deleted them, wishing she would stop being so vulgar.

John soon became bored and looked at his watch, wondering how long Sherlock had been out ._Over two hours, now._ That was, two hours since he had woken up._ Who knows how long Sherlock had been out before that? _John grimaced. A trip to the mart should have taken less than an hour or so, and he decided to check his phone.

3 Unread Messages/

**Something came up. I'll be out a bit longer. -SH**

7:45 am

**At Bart's. -SH**

8:00 am

** Come at once. -SH**

9:00 am

John sighed and checked his watch. It was 9:27. _How had he not noticed his phone going off?_ He shrugged and rose to his feet. Making sure the stove was off, he threw his coat onto his back, and headed out the door.

Bart's seemed a little less busy then he would have guessed it to be on such a miserably icy morning. The hallways seemed oddly vacant, and with every step John took, a clattering echo filled in the empty space around him.

Upon entering the hospital mortuary, John found Sherlock harrassing Molly. He uses the word harassing, because poor Molly is too infatuated to turn any of Sherlock's requests down; Sherlock clearly uses this to his advantage- quite frequently- he might add.

Sherlock looked over at John with a glint of liveliness, and John instantly felt relief. Sherlock was clearly beginning to act himself again. John glanced at the examination tables as Molly pushed past him, blushing most likely from something Sherlock had said. He was immediately confused. Instead of seeing the usual swollen and disfigured corpse, he saw only the bright and shining metallic surface of the table. "There's nothing there..." He observed.

"Ah, John," Sherlock grinned madly. He was clearly intrigued and enlightened at the same time, "yes, the table is empty. Lestrade informed me this very morning of the strange disappearance of a body. Normally I wouldn't have cared-" John listened as Sherlock paused and shot him a humorous glance, "However. This was found in the body's place."

Sherlock handed John a small folded envelope, already opened. John took it in his hand and looked it over, and every bit of hope that he thought he had drained out of him.

"It's... the exact same letter, as before..." He recognized the Bohemian envelope, the purple-blue ink that was 'clearly' written by a woman- no fingerprints, he didn't have to guess. John felt faint for a moment, and could feel his face go pale as he read the note was addressed to him, instead of to Sherlock. i What is going on here?/i Sherlock nodded curtly.

"Yes John. Now we know what we're dealing with. I took the liberty in not waiting up for you-" he looked at his wristwatch, "as it's been well over two hours since I've been down here. Now, John. I wanted to read the letter, really, but If you'll notice," Sherlock glanced at John enviously, " It is clearly intended for you. There is also a note on the inside of the envelope's flap. See? 'Do not allow Sherlock Holmes to read, on pain of death.' See that? I'd have read it, but-" His eyes narrowed, studying the paper in John's hand as John explored it. "I had the thing checked for any sort of poison, toxins, powder- anything dangerous. There was nothing...," Sherlock seemed irritated, "Nothing... but Lestrade insisted that I didn't read it. He threatened me with another 'drug's bust.'So kind of him, eh? He offered to read it, but I much rather you." Sherlock folded his hands under his chin and leaned against the cold, metallic examination table, beckoning for John to read it. _No,_ John frowned, _he was begging him to read it._

A wave of anxiety raced through John's gut. He bit his lip- He didn't want to do this. He didn't want anyone to be put into any danger again... secretly, it thrilled him. But that only made him feel worse about it all. John swallowed hard, and slowly slid the second paper-a larger, folded one- out of the envelope. He opened the letter slowly, and stared at it.

DON'T.

.-11/9.-11.13.13.-1.1.-11.-1/

3.10.3/-1.-11.-5/-13.10.-7.-7/-13.6

John frowned. Don't what? That was all that was written, and John was horribly confused. Sherlock fidgeted impatiently, and reached for the paper.

DON'T.

John gripped the paper tightly, and pulled it close to himself.

_Don't let Sherlock read it, on pain of death..._

His head swam.

John had gone straight home afterwards, taking the milk and beans Sherlock had bought earlier with him. The note was tucked safely into his breast pocket, and it had taken all of his willpower to keep it away from Sherlock. He felt awful about it, and Sherlock threw a tantrum of sorts, but a gut feeling told John to keep it away from Sherlock, no matter what.

John sat down at his and Sherlock's shared desk with a cup of tea and his laptop, and stared at the paper again for a good, long time._ What the hell were all those numbers? A cipher, of some sort, maybe. Maybe coordinates..._ John typed in the series of numbers, hoping something would come up. Anything.

_Nothing_. John sighed._ Absolutely nothing._ He ran his fingers through his hair, and glanced at the time. 2:00. It had been hours, and John's head ached. He needed help, but he couldn't ask Sherlock. Turning to Mycroft wouldn't help either- Mycroft didn't have the 'energy' for such things, as he had once told him. An overwhelming surge of frustration attacked John like a rabid dog, and he jumped out of his chair, pacing. After a moment, he stopped dead in his tracks.

iWhat was he doing? Pacing about like he'd gone half mad../i. John sat back down, his chin resting in his palms. He took a sip of his tea, watching the menacing slip of paper in the corner of his eye. He flipped it face down, angry with it, and sighed again.

It was 3:32 when Sherlock stormed into the flat, and John half expected him to not speak at all. Instead, he walked over to John, looked him up and down, and sat- no, fell- onto the sofa. His gaze remained on John for a while, and John sipped his tea awkwardly. Finally, Sherlock broke the silence.

"You know, John, you'll never crack it. Not alone," He stated flatly. John frowned. "And if you won't let me help you, then at least let someone else. Maybe somewhere out there, there is someone capable of solving it. Perhaps, a blog follower...," he rolled over onto his side, glaring at the blank screen of their television. "The man was William Kirwan. A strange name, no doubt... He was a driver for some wealthy family- the Cunninghams' of Surrey. Apparently, the night that William was murdered, Mr. Cunningham- in his bedroom at the time- saw a suspicious man just outside. Mr. Cunningham's son, Alex, claims to have seen the man as well. Both heard the shot. When they ran outside to investigate, William was dead on the ground. Both saw the same suspicious man run off. They claimed he was moving too fast for them to get a good look, though." Sherlock scoffed. "That's the police report, at least. Since I've nothing better to do, I'd like to go investigate. Will you come along?"

"Of course I'll come along. When do we leave?" John stood, grabbing at his empty mug. Sherlock sat up and shook his head, giving John a sideways glance.

"Just as soon as you've made that little blog. Don't put it on your usual- make another one. We don't want any unwanted suspicion, or questions. Plus, I don't think I would be able to resist the temptation to sneak a peak if it were so simply right in front of me," Sherlock scratched his head. "Now, hurry. I'd like to leave before 6, if at all possible."

John nodded and sat back down. He created his new blog-'Brainworks,' for lack of a better name, and hastily wrote out his first blog post. _God forbid, someone will actually stumble upon it, let alone solve it_...John sighed, and hit the post button.


	3. Chapter 2

John and Sherlock had in fact not headed out to Surrey last night. It had taken John a long time to set up his blog- he had made a simple, idiotic mistake, of course. He first realized he couldn't log into it to post the cypher... and it was his fault. After careful speculation and frustration, Sherlock glanced at the login page and laughed, slapping John on the back.

"John, you poor bastard- You've spelt your name wrong in your email..." He laughed again, stalking off to grab his violin and then falling back onto the sofa. "If you will, John. It's getting rather late-," Sherlock groaned at the sight of his watch, "forget it. Keep up with that stupid blog thing. We'll never make it anywhere tonight. The entire residence is sleeping by now, I assume. It's sort of late, for a family of such pampering." John frowned at the fact of having disappointed Sherlock more than once that day, but kept calm and carried on, recreating his blog-this time with a proper email.

PAfterwards, he and Sherlock both ordered takeout, and sat on their respective sofa and armchair, watching crap telly. John had managed not to murder Sherlock with the chopsticks he had been eating with- he was so noisy and intolerable. Sherlock had been constantly yelling at the telly because it was boring; because the people were so stupid; because John's favorite program was so obvious and predictable. Sherlock had noticed John's irritation and pressed on, grinning devilishly at John as his frustration a child... _he's TESTING me_. John sighed, looked at Sherlock, and after a moment let out a hardly suppressed laugh.

"Sherlock, you prick! Are you about done being such a childish sod?" John interjected, nearly choking on his udon noodles. Sherlock glared at John in amusement, and sat up from where he had reclined on the sofa.

"No John," He chuckled throatily, "not quite. Irritating you is more fun than the stupid telly ever will be..." He grinned madly, and took both he and John's trash to throw out. John froze, confused. iSherlock, cleaning up?/i He smiled at the thought, though his brow was still furrowed in disbelief.

"Thanks," John sat back and pulled out his laptop, setting it on his lap. It had only been less than an hour since he had initially created and made the first post on his blog, but he figured he might as well check. He typed in his email- double checking that he spelled it right- and logged in.

**1 New Message**

**Sherlock says...**

**I do love a good puzzle!**

**9:46 pm**

John clenched his teeth and listened to Sherlock moving about the kitchen. His mind was blank for a moment. iWhat the bloody hell.../i He felt betrayed, and a bit angry. He caught himself glaring at the letters on the screen, when a hand extended in front of his face. John snapped out of his angry, confused trance and accepted the fresh mug of tea that Sherlock held out in front of him. John's expression softened. _No... Sherlock's been here this ENTIRE time. He wouldn't... he COULDN'T._

"John, you seem upset...," Sherlock observed, and flopped back onto the sofa, violin in hand. "Harrisons and Crosfield, earl grey- a dash of cream and teaspoon of sugar- am I wrong?" He squinted, poking fun at John's long face, yet still inquiring. John shook his head frantically, not catching onto Sherlock's humor.

"Oh, no no no- It's just right, thanks...," he trailed off, looking back at his computer and taking a sip. "It's just that someone is doing a bit of joking on the blog," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Sherlock nodded, chuckling softly, curious.

"How so?" he plucked at his violin calmly, waiting.

"Some fellow here is trying to impersonate you," John grumbled, and read the post to Sherlock. Sherlock's hard gaze didn't waiver for an instant, and he only nodded, shrugging.

"It does seem that way... someone's trying to get our attention. Probably one of Moriarty's men. Or the very man himself. Keep an eye on the fellow. Keep me updated. I won't meddle into matters, so long as you keep me informed... please," Sherlock licked his lips, and began quietly playing his violin. John pursed his lips. _That's it for Sherlock's good mood._ He frowned. The violin was being sawed on softly, but cacophonously. Sherlock was upset, John knew, and he figured it would be best if he disappeared to his bedroom for the night.

It was now nearly 11:00 am the following day. John was sipping his tea at his and Sherlock's desk, waiting for Sherlock to be ready to leave. They had both packed a bag for overnight, just in case. He checked the blog- no new comments. John sighed. No one was being much of a help..., he'd have to look at it himself a bit. In just a short time, Sherlock was bounding down the stairs and into the sitting room, hardly hesitating to throw John his coat and put his own on. He threw open the door, and out they went- Sherlock shouting to Mrs. Hudson that they'd be out for a while as they left.

The drive to Surrey was only about an hour long, though conflicting traffic made it a bit of a stretch more. They had finally arrived in a rich area of large houses with the finest gardens. Even in the cold month of January, the gardens managed to look lush and well maintained. John watched in good humor, and was stunned to hear Sherlock scoff.

"Disgusting, John. All these houses and yet all I can see are the crimes that might happen inside each of them. I envy that about you: you can enjoy things like that," he pointed to a particularly sunny looking house, with children playing in the garden. "Then again," he smirked, " I have the upper hand when it comes to observation," he studied John for a moment, and smiled with a glint of mischievousness. "I don't need to prove that to you." John pursed his lips, and wondered what Sherlock was thinking, suddenly becoming flush in the face. _What has he deduced about me now?_ John looked out the window, watching the houses again and trying to ignore Sherlock's stare. They sat in silence for a few minutes, until John's curiosity was no longer avoidable.

"What is it you've figured about me this time?" John asked in a mouse-like manner, glancing at Sherlock and then back out the window as he waited. He could hear Sherlock's lips curl into a smile.

"John, I've deduced many things, but what I am talking about is most simply the fact that you couldn't have gotten no more sleep than two hours last night. I've inferred this simply on account of three things- your face; your shirt; and your manner. I know you, John. Obviously. Now, your face is paler than usual- most haggard and sagging, a bit. You've dark circles under your eyes, which are a CLEAR indication of unrest," Sherlock leaned back where he sat, and crossed his arms, giving the impression that he felt he was blathering on. "Your clothing is wrinkled and there is a bit of a stain on your right wrist cuff- meaning you've been in an awkward position for a stretch of time. You've fallen asleep while sitting on the armchair back at Baker Street, propped up by that hand- and perhaps drooled a bit of tea onto it. You've been dozing off for the last forty-three minutes, are incoherent at best, and," he threw a coin at the headrest next to John, who blinked before reacting exaggeratedly, "your reaction time is much slower that usual. That is how I can tell. Plus, by the rigidness in your fingers, I know that you were up, on your computer. You couldn't sleep because of what was on that card, and are still trying to figure it out." Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest, took out his phone, and smirked. "Don't loose sleep over it, John. I'm sure someone will solve it. Has anyone commented on it since my little impersonator?" He gave john a sideways glance over his phone, waiting for a reply.

John frowned. No, no one had come to any sort of conclusion. In fact, no one had said anything, and this worried John. What if it was extremely important that it be solved? What if it was a matter of life or death?

"No, nothing since I last checked..." John shrugged. He had been up all night, and the only sleep he had gotten was, indeed, when he had managed to doze off in his armchair that morning while waiting for Sherlock to be ready. John laughed a bit to himself, Sherlock never failed to come to such conclusions.. It was remarkable. Sherlock snapped a set of fingers in John's face, removing him from thought.

"Come on, John. Let's go; we're here," He called, climbing out of the cab. John rushed out after him, suffering a dizzy spell as he did so. Blinking back the brightness of the afternoon sun as it peaked from behind a layer of wintery haze, John followed Sherlock up a path that led to a large iron gate. Still recovering from disorientation, John rubbed his face in confusion. The gate was massive and sturdy, and could only be opened electronically. Behind it was a stone walkway that led to a large, towering house. Sherlock rang a buzzer on a shoulder-height post, and spoke into it, inquiring entrance. As if on cue, the gate opened with a hum and Sherlock stalked through, John close at his heels.


	4. Chapter 3

Inside the towering house was not as John had expected it. He was had been expecting to see a grand hall filled with rich ornaments and statues- fancy things. Instead, what they found was an empty room with what seemed to be a once grand staircase. John frowned. He could tell that at least at one point in time the house was well furnished- it just needed a bit of dusting... John tried to picture what the room had once been when he and Sherlock were both greeted by a barrel-chested man- stout; in his fifties. John couldn't help notice how tired the man looked- dark rings underneath his heavily set eyes.

Sherlock shook the man's hand firmly; thoughts were clearly racing through his mind as he observed and deduced everything about the man; the house; the son who had not come to greet them; the obviously deceased wife. John could see Sherlock's mind sift through the details at lightening speed, but he could not guess what he was thinking.

"Mr. Cunningham, I presume? I'm Sherlock Holmes; this is my friend, John Watson. I'm sure you've heard about the disappearance of your driver's body from Barts' mortuary?" He inquired, studying the man, who furrowed his brow.

"Ah, yes... our dear Mr. Williams..." Mr. Cunningham spoke sullenly, hardening his gaze. "Have you any idea what has happened? We were going to have a proper burial, if it was possible..." Sherlock nodded shortly, and jammed his hands into his pockets.

"That's why I'm here. Lestrade sent me to gather information. I'd like to ask you explain to me in detail the events that took place leading up to William's death, and I'd like to hear your son's side of the story, too, if you will." Sherlock looked around the room while he spoke, glancing at the empty spots on the walls where pictures had once been hung; the spots on the floor where furniture had once been kept. Mr Cunningham agreed, and began to explain his story, which was just as had been in the Police report. Both John and Sherlock, intrigued, listened.

"Well, Mr. Holmes. On that unfortunate ti night, I had been reading a book- an Agatha Christie novel, if you will- the one where they're trapped at this mansion, see, and they all keep dying, one by one? It's a good read, Mr. Hol-" Mr. Cunningham was interrupted.

"I've heard of it, yes. But, I doubt the plot to a mystery novel is QUITE relevant to our own mystery here." Sherlock stated impatiently. Mr Cunningham laughed nervously, and apologized.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes. I'm not quite used to these kind of things. They make me nervous..."

"There's no reason to be nervous. Unless of course, you're hiding something...?" Sherlock glared, with the slightest bit of amusement. John sighed inwardly, cursing Sherlock's behavior. Mr. Cunningham grew red in the face.

"Now! Don't blame me for something I had no part in! Why on earth would I want to murder my own driver? And if I had, why in the hell would I call you in to do detecting, where I so obviously wouldn't want it?" Mr. Cunningham stammered, obviously upset. Sherlock shrugged.

"Perhaps to avoid suspicion? Anyway, Mr. Cunningham. There's no need for you to be upset. At this point, I must question everyone's innocence if you wish for me to find the murderer. Please, by all means, calm down and continue." The stout man puffed his cheeks and exhaled, collecting his temper.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes, I apologize. Anyway. I was reading that book, and about to go to bed. So, I turned out the lights, and shut my eyes. It wasn't a moment later that-"

"I apologize for interrupting again, but what time did you decide to go to sleep?" Sherlock inquired. Mr. Cunningham thought for a moment.

"Uhm, well, it was probably a little after midnight. Perhaps a bit before. I'm not too certain. Anyways, I had just shut my eyes when I heard an argument outside. It wasn't any normal argument either- there was lots of yelling and swearing. Real loud. I'll admit, it frightened me, so I leapt up out of bed and tried to run to the window. With my luck, I got tripped up on the table at the foot of my bed. It nearly fell on top of me! It hit me real hard in the back of my neck! Now, I was struggling to get this desk off the top of me, fumbling about in the dark like a total loon, when I heard it. I nearly-"

"Heard what, Mr. Cunningham?"

"The gunshot, of course! I heard the gunshot and threw the table off of me, and ran downstairs. My son was running right alongside me, too! He had just gotten back from a date with a young lady. Anyway! Mr. Holmes! We both ran outside and saw poor young Williams lying dead on the ground!It was a bloody mess! And then we saw a dark figure darting away, gun in hand. Honestly, Mr. Holmes, I'd never been more terrified. My son waited with the body while I called for authorities... and that's that. They showed up within five minutes, and took the body away..." Mr. Cunningham's face was lit with expression and excitement, waiting for Sherlock to say something. John glanced between the two as Sherlock stood, hunched and with one hand to his face- clearly analyzing the man's statement. After just a short bit of time, Sherlock spoke.

"Ah, Mr. Cunningham. would you mind showing me where you found the body?" Sherlock asked. Mr Cunningham nodded, and led the two back out the door and over to the limo, which was parked in the arcing drive. The man waddled to the side of the limo nearest the house's door, and pointed.

"Thats about where he was, Mr. Holmes." He gesticulated towards the ground in a circular motion.

"Tell me, where his feet towards the house, or towards the gate?" Mr. Cunningham recalled the feet facing towards the gate, and that the young man was on his stomach. Sherlock nodded, and examined the ground, examining the area for some time. After a few minutes, he stood and cleared his throat. " All right, very well Mr. Cunningham. May I speak with your son now?"

John and Sherlock both followed the large man back into the house, where they followed him up the large, grand staircase. Down the hallway, Sherlock paused outside an opened doorway, and peered in.

"Tell me, Mr. Cunningham, is this your room?" he asked. Mr Cunningham nodded, while continuing down the hallway, and knocking on a door to the right.

"Alex. That detective, Mr. Holmes, would like to speak with you." There was motion from inside the room, and the door presently opened. Alex Cunningham was a sharply dressed young fellow, and was tall and lean. He was the rich-and-snotty type, and looked down upon those less fortunate than he. John, in the instant he met him, didn't like the man. He was arrogant and eyed both he and Sherlock in distaste. Alex's story was much like his fathers- It had not been thirty seconds since he had entered the house upon returning from his date that he heard the gunshot. He panicked, and ran for the kitchen to grab a knife-merely for defensive reasons- before rushing outside. He and Williams were the same age; they got along well enough. He saw a figure running away from the body when he got outside, and was rightly terrified. John found it curious that the young man should run to the kitchen for a knife, what good would it have done him if the murderer decided to stick around?

"Alex-" Sherlock was about to inquire, when the young man cut in rather rudely.

"It's Mr. Cunningham, sir." Alex's nose was pointed towards the ceiling, and Sherlock laughed, amused by the young man's inferiority complex.

"Of course, _Mister Cunningham_. I was just wishing to ask the name of your date last night." Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited. Alex Cunningham snorted.

"Why should you know? She's got nothing to do with it." John was getting irritated with the young Cunninham's attitude, and tapped his fingers against his elbow.

"_ Mister _Alex Cunningham, every detail is important. The sooner you answer our questions the sooner we'll leave!" John spat, trying to control his frustration. Sherlock frowned lightheartedly.

"It's true. What's her name? Or was it _his _name?" Sherlock smiled. Alex's brow furrowed and his lips curved into a terrible frown.

"_ Her _name is Abbie. Abbie Girard. She lives just a short walk from here." The pompous man glared at his father. "Are we done now?"

"Quite," Mr. Cunningham stammered, and ushered Sherlock and John back down the stairs and out of the house. "Now, Mr. Holmes, I'm very sorry for the way my son acted... he's a little shaken, is all. What with his mother..." Mr. Cunningham's face went white, and he bit his lip with most intensity.

"Ah! I was wondering if you were going to share with me any information about your wife. She passed about three months ago, correct?"

John hissed at Sherlock. _How could he be so inconsiderate? Especially if the wife had only passed just a mere three months ago...! _Sherlock waved John's dismay, and watched Cunningham's dim face.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. But... not quite. She's not dead, at least I hope. Maybe she is. But for now, she's just been missing. No one, not even the police, have a clue as to where she could be." The man watched the ground as he spoke, and played with his tie. In an instant, his expression grew from dull remorse, to that of irritation, and he insisted that the Baker Street pair leave.  
>John and Sherlock went separate ways at the end of the Cunningham's estate. John back to the flat, and Sherlock to go deal with some 'unfinished business,' as he called it. John didn't mind much. The interview with the posh Cunninhams that day had worn him out, and he wanted to check up on the blog.<br>The sitting room was very dimly lit- only the bright white of Johns laptop, and the faint glow of a light on in the kitchen- lit the lodgings. John apprehensively typed in the blog address, wishing for an answer but not wanting to hear it. He didn't want to know- he wanted it to go away, like a bad dream when you wake up. He logged into the blog, and clicked on 'messages.'

**2 New Messages**

**jenny4790 said...**

**I feel as though there's Morse code in this. That's sadly my biggest lead for now, I'll be back later.**

**3:48 pm**

John sat back, confused for a bit. He knew morse code- how was it supposed to be translated from numbers, though? He typed a response, and checked the next message.

**Curreeus said...**

**I could be wrong, but I think it says (With slashes still included)**  
><strong>HELLOJOLLYBOY/**  
><strong>DIDYOU/MISS/ME/**  
><strong>Of course, I could be wrong.<strong>

**5:41 pm**

John stared at the screen. What the hell was 'jollyboy?' He hastily typed a response. The reply came very quickly, and he found himself racing to read it.

**Curreeus said...**

**Argh! I said I could be wrong and I was!**  
><strong>I moved the letters the wrong way. It's 'Johnny boy', not 'Jolly boy.'<strong>  
><strong>Sorry. :D<strong>

John sat in silence, his heart in his throat.

HELLO JOHNNY BOY DID YOU MISS ME


	5. Chapter 4

There were many questions that still sat at the back of John's mind, not allowing him to find any sort of rest. It was late. After the news of the dreadful deciphered message, John wasn't so sure he wanted to sleep, regardless of how tired he was. He had to admit, he was on edge, and had his gun under his pillow. _Why isn't Sherlock home yet? Why hasn't he answered my texts? _John scowled and turned over in his bed. In that instant his entire body went numb with fear. Outside, right outside the window, he though he saw a pale, familiar face, watching him. _Moriarty?_ John leapt out of bed with a cry of shock, and grabbed for his gun. At that moment, the door to his bedroom swung open, and John's aim followed.

"John? Are you…" Sherlock paused and watched John pointing the gun at him. John realized and lowered the weapon, but still kept it in hand. Sherlock studied John's face, which was pale as a sheet and stricken with shock. He furrowed his brows in contemplative confusion. "John, are you alright? I heard you shout….. You look like you've seen a ghost…" Sherlock approached John with more curiosity than concern.

"I…I'm fine, Sherlock. It must've been a nightmare, or… something." _It might as well have been a ghost…_ John stammered, collecting his nerves. He set the gun in the drawer of his night stand, and sat on his bed. "When did you get back? I didn't hear you come in…" Sherlock leaned against the wall and shrugged.

"Not long ago. I went and visited Miss Abby Girard, and found out something that proves to be very interesting! How do you think the young lady and Alex Cunningham got from place to place, John?" Sherlock grinned, intent to listen to John's impression.  
>"Well, I suppose they went by limo, right? Otherwise, why else would they have a hired driver? " John calmed himself down, and rubbed the back of his neck. Sherlock pushed off the wall and rushed towards John, making him flinch.<p>

"Exactly! But what do you make of it when Miss Abby claims that Alex left her home _early_ on the evening of Williams' death, and _walked_ home?" Holmes' expression was of complete exuberance. John scowled a bit, and shrugged.  
>" I don't understand…" John was too tired to think. <em>How does Holmes have such energy at such late an hour?<em> John was now fighting to keep his eyes awake, but was jerked to attention by a grasp on his arm.

"Come, John! We're not quite through with the Cunninghams' yet! Tell me, John, what time did Cunningham say he went to sleep?" Sherlock was grasping John by the shoulders and shaking him.

"Uh… midnight?" John stammered, slightly startled.

"Right! It's a five minute walk from Abby's to house the Cunningham's, I timed it myself. Alex Cunningham left Abby's house at exactly 12! What do you think?" Sherlock was bursting with energy.

"Sherlock, he already told us that he had just gotten home before it happened! What do you want from it?" John cried in protest. Despite all the night's events, he was now ready to fall asleep, and was in no mood for thinking. Sherlock shook his head feverishly.

"No! John, don't you remember? Williams' feet were toward the gates; he was on his stomach! Don't you see? He was shot in the head, from behind! He was getting ready to leave to go pick up Alex at a predetermined time, when he was attacked! John, really now!" Sherlock was growing agitated, waiting impatiently as John put the pieces together.

"My God, Sherlock! It was Alex, then?" John cried, and Sherlock joined him with a cry of equal energy, but of amusement and victory rather than surprise. He clapped his hands together, chuffed.

"Exactly, John! So, let's go! I can't wait—I've got no patience, so let's go! Now!" Sherlock danced with impatience while John rubbed his brow and rose to his feet. "Hurry John, lets _go!_"

As soon as John had dressed himself, Sherlock pulled him out into the street and hailed a cab with haste; not wasting anytime to speak with Mrs. Hudson, who had woken from all the noise. John blubbered an apology as he was pulled past her and through the door. It was still dark; the light of morning was just barely visible on the horizon. As John squeezed into the cab, he pulled his coat around him. It was cold and bitter; he could see his breath clearly. He shivered, eyeing Sherlock, who was somehow immune to the frigid temperatures.

"Sherlock, what on earth makes you think The Cunninghams are awake at such a miserable hour?" John shivered again as tiny raindrops began to patter against the cab's window. "Why can't I just stay in bed? I'm tired… " John fished for words, fatigue fogging his thought process. "Couldn't this wait till morning…?" He finally finished, pulling his coat around him tightly. His breath was still visible, as was Sherlock's. Despite the cold, John's eyes drooped heavily.

"John, by the time we arrive to the Cunningham's place, it will be well after sunrise. I want to get down there as soon as possible, furthermore…" Sherlock spoke calmly, and John, finding himself too tired to think straight, soon fell asleep, with his head propped against the window.

-

Blackness surrounded the area with utter indefiniteness. There was nothing to be seen, and as dark as was the view, so it was silent. It was like being trapped in a thick smoke that filled the lungs. John's ears rang, and his throat was like sandpaper. _What's going on? _John struggled, but did not move. It was as if he was suspended in time, his mind willing his body to move, but his limbs betraying him. A wicked laugh sliced through the silence, echoing in and out of John's ear with in a deafening pitch. John wanted to hold his head, or cover his ears, but couldn't move. The laughter turned to something of disgust. John could recognize that sing-song voice. The madness and insanity—he knew who it was. _I'll burn the **heart** out of you!_ The voice shook dangerously, and hit John's ears like pins and needles. John gasped from the pain. He wanted to make it stop. He wanted to curl up and go to sleep; to make the pain and terror leave. He felt an impending dread. He knew something was approaching. Unable to move, John grew quiet out of sheer terror.

Still and silent, John was able to see a faint, dim orb approaching. In little time, or what may have been forever, the dim circular shape came into detail. It was not a circle, or a light, but a face. John knew the face—the pale skin, the dark, beady eyes—eyes so filled with madness it was enough to drive a person insane. The very same face he had seen outside his window that morning. John grew frantic, still paralyzed with fear and the grasp of an unknown force. _Hello Johnny boy, did you miss me?_

-

The sun was now up, and the sky shone with the radiance of many different colors, so often as a winter's morning sky produced. A frost had settled among the world, and it glistened with a milky luminance. The air was still dreadfully and bitingly cold, and Sherlock had pulled his knees to his chest and hugged himself to keep warm, burying his face within his scarf. _Doesn't this cab have working heat?_ Sherlock scowled and watched as John squirmed where he had fallen asleep quite some time ago. Perplexed, he wished he could know what John was dreaming about. _Was is to do with the case? Or was it something else?_ Sherlock frowned. _Perhaps that slip of paper from the missing body…._ He looked out the window, growing irritated. He wanted to know what was on that paper. He _needed_ to know, otherwise he might go absolutely insane. Sherlock kicked himself for being so intrusive and pathetic, and averted his gaze back to John, whose face had now turned a brilliant shade of white. _Perhaps I should have let him stay back at the flat…._ Sherlock considered, but shook his head, _no, I'll need him… I know it._

It was not much longer until the cab had entered the estate. Sherlock examined his surroundings from where he sat, and stretched. John was still sleeping restlessly, and so Sherlock shook him awake, "John! Come on, wake up, we're here…." John woke with a start, and had a frenzied look upon his face. In reflex, he grabbed at Sherlock's wrist, and held it tight with ferocity. Sherlock grimaced, with slight amusement. "Come on, John… let's go." He squinted. John's expression softened, and removed his grip, muttering an apology.

Upon entering the estate, it seemed as though John and Sherlock had woken the household. Both the Cunningham's were tying robes over their pajamas and around themselves when they walked down the stairs; both had a haggard, tired look about their faces, as well. John frowned _I'll bet they got more sleep than I did…_ Sherlock noticed John's distasteful expression, and elbowed him. John frowned and attempted to adjust his mood, failing rather miserably.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson… how can we help you?" Mr. Cunningham inquired with a groggy voice, and his son scoffed.

"Why'd you have to come so early? I much rather be sleeping." The young man grumbled, and John's stomach soured. _So would I!_ He grimaced, and waited as Sherlock began to speak.

"Yes, I apologize for the early hour. But, I think I may have a solution to your case, I just needed to touch upon some points to check myself. Now, Your driver didn't have any enemies, I presume? No? That's what I thought. He probably didn't have any friends, either? A young man, paid a good sum to drive his bosses around—that probably left him with little time for an outside, social life. Now… Had he other family?" Sherlock inquired, and Mr. Cunningham shook his head.

"Not at all. Not that we knew of, at least. He never spoke of relatives. We figured he was a runaway, but he insisted that he wasn't. We took his word for it." Mr. Cunningham shrugged, and stuffed his hands into his robe's pockets. Sherlock looked at John and nodded, leaving John a bit more alert and curious. Sherlock folded his hands under his chin.

"I see, so it was a complete stranger that probably knew little of Williams…. If he had no enemies, who else would it have been?" Sherlock raised his brow, and Mr. Cunningham agreed. "Alright then! I believe we have a case closed, gentleman. I just have one more point I'd like to touch upon. Mr. Cunningham, may I please see your room?" Mr. Cunningham's lips puckered.

"May I ask, for what purpose?" His brow furrowed, and he folded his arms. Sherlock shrugged.

"I just need to see a good view of the whole estate, to try and pick out the murderer's entrance and escape routes. You know, where he could have entered and exited the estate? Surely you've a good view from your window?"

"Of course, certainly. Right this way, Mr. Holmes!" Mr. Cunningham beckoned, and the three—John, Sherlock, and Alex Cunningham, followed the middle aged gentleman up the stairs and through a door on the left. John was confused, and certainly curious. He was almost positive that Sherlock had already examined possible points of a weakness in the garden's defense. And if they both already knew that it had in fact been Alex Cunningham that committed the crime, then why should it matter where the man had entered and exited from? _Of course, Sherlock must know what he's doing…_ John decided to play along.

Upon entering the room, Sherlock was already beaming with delight. Oh, Mr. Cunningham—this is that book you were speaking about?" He picked a book off the table at the foot of a bed that was up against the wall. Mr. Cunningham clarified with delight, and detailed the book's contents again. Sherlock nodded, half listening, and set the book back down. "Interesting," he looked about the room, and stared out a large window for a few seconds. "Oh! And Mr. Cunningham, this must be the window, right?" He walked over, and frowned, "oh, dear, I see where your murderer was able to get in and out so easily! Come here and take a look, Mr. Cunningham—you too Alex. Look, see right there?" Sherlock backed out of the way while pointing off in the distance.

John stood by the foot of the bed, curious. All of a sudden, Sherlock slapped a vase that had been sitting on the nightstand, and it fell to the ground, shattering into dozens of sharp, glass pieces. John jumped back, horrified.

"John! You clumsy idiot! I'm so sorry Mr. Cunningham! Perhaps…" Sherlock stooped over the vase and began picking up the shards. John watched, dumbfounded and angry, as Sherlock accused him. Both the Cunninghams raced over to help collect the pieces. "John, get down here and help!" Sherlock stood up, and looked at John with a cold, hard stare. _He's up to something…_ John stuttered, "of course! I'm so sorry! I can pay you for it—I'm so sorry!" He played along, intently picking up the pieces. Before he knew what had happened, both the Cunninghams had raced from the room, cursing.

John stopped, confused, and the door slammed with a click, locking him in the room. _Where did they go? _John jumped up, and tried the door. It didn't budge. He could hear shouting down the stairs—angry and violent. John panicked, _Sherlock! _He threw his weight at the door, trying to ram it open. He could hear Sherlock's startled shouting—however muffled and indistinct. John knew he had to get to Sherlock—what were they doing down there? John threw himself at the door once more, with no luck. The shouts from downstairs were now higher in pitch, and sounded dangerous. John bared his teeth and lunged at the door with all his might. The door finally gave way, and swung open violently. John could now clearly hear signs of a struggle, and he rushed down the stairs without a though, following the echoed voices into the kitchen, where he found Mr. Cunningham and his son huddled over a squirming figure on the ground.

John rushed forward and ripped the men off of Sherlock, who gasped for air once the hands were removed from his neck.

"What the hell! Sherlock..! Are you alright?" John helped Sherlock up, and held him steady while he continued wheezing for air. Holmes nodded, and pointed at both Mr. Cunningham and Alex with an accusing finger.

"You're _both_ guilty! Alex left Abby's early and killed Williams from behind—shot him in the head! I can bet you anything that the very weapon is hidden in this kitchen somewhere. And you, Mr. Cunningham, you covered for your son! The vase upon the night-table that you had so violently was covered in dust, and matched dust on the table, too. Had you REALLY fallen over it, the vase would have broken, or been replaced. The dust told me otherwise. Also, you both claim to have seen the 'murderer' run away, with gun in hand? Thats a funny detail. How was it you could notice the gun, but nothing else about the man? Explain, what you, Williams, and the man Moriarty have in common. Why would he be interested in the man's body? There's no used running, I called upon Lestrade ahead of time. He's waiting down the road a bit; also, Doctor Watson here has his gun. So, explain." Sherlock hissed, regaining his breath and strength. He removed himself from John's helpful grasp, and stood on his own, straightening his scarf. Both Cunninghams froze in their tracks when they saw John aiming his gun at them, and gave in with bitterness and exasperation.

"You! We had no choice, you see? My wife, she's been missing. We all thought she was dead! We were contacted—first by email. Someone had been claiming that they had my wife, and that she was alive. At first I thought it was some sick joke, but then we got a call—it was my wife! She told us that if we wanted to see here again, we'd need to pay money. Lots of it. We had to sell most of our things, to even come close to obtaining such amounts. We were told that we had to… to package the money up… inside Williams…." Mr. Cunningham turned towards his son and started shouting, "It's your fault! I wasn't planning on going through with it! But you went and killed him anyway, and then we had no choice!" Alex became red in the face.

"My mother is missing! I can't let her die because of some driver!" Alex grew threatening in posture, glaring at his old man. "All I had to do was cram the stuff down his throat! I didn't even need a knife!" he faced John and Sherlock again, "my father went ahead and hid the gun while I carried out the task. Once we were finished, we called the police. We only had to generously tip the men who took the body away to keep them quiet. And that was all it took."

Sherlock and John exchanged glances, and eyed the two murderers with disgust. Sherlock dialed the police, "Lestrade, we've got your men. Come get them"


	6. Chapter 5

There were many questions that still sat at the back of John's mind, not allowing him to find any sort of rest. It was late. After the news of the dreadful deciphered message, John wasn't so sure he wanted to sleep, regardless of how tired he was. He had to admit, he was on edge, and had his gun under his pillow. _Why isn't Sherlock home yet? Why hasn't he answered my texts? _John scowled and turned over in his bed. In that instant his entire body went numb with fear. Outside, right outside the window, he though he saw a pale, familiar face, watching him. _Moriarty?_ John leapt out of bed with a cry of shock, and grabbed for his gun. At that moment, the door to his bedroom swung open, and John's aim followed.

"John? Are you…" Sherlock paused and watched John pointing the gun at him. John realized and lowered the weapon, but still kept it in hand. Sherlock studied John's face, which was pale as a sheet and stricken with shock. He furrowed his brows in contemplative confusion. "John, are you alright? I heard you shout….. You look like you've seen a ghost…" Sherlock approached John with more curiosity than concern.

"I…I'm fine, Sherlock. It must've been a nightmare, or… something." _It might as well have been a ghost…_ John stammered, collecting his nerves. He set the gun in the drawer of his night stand, and sat on his bed. "When did you get back? I didn't hear you come in…" Sherlock leaned against the wall and shrugged.

"Not long ago. I went and visited Miss Abby Girard, and found out something that proves to be very interesting! How do you think the young lady and Alex Cunningham got from place to place, John?" Sherlock grinned, intent to listen to John's impression.  
>"Well, I suppose they went by limo, right? Otherwise, why else would they have a hired driver? " John calmed himself down, and rubbed the back of his neck. Sherlock pushed off the wall and rushed towards John, making him flinch.<p>

"Exactly! But what do you make of it when Miss Abby claims that Alex left her home _early_ on the evening of Williams' death, and _walked_ home?" Holmes' expression was of complete exuberance. John scowled a bit, and shrugged.  
>" I don't understand…" John was too tired to think. <em>How does Holmes have such energy at such late an hour?<em> John was now fighting to keep his eyes awake, but was jerked to attention by a grasp on his arm.

"Come, John! We're not quite through with the Cunninghams' yet! Tell me, John, what time did Cunningham say he went to sleep?" Sherlock was grasping John by the shoulders and shaking him.

"Uh… midnight?" John stammered, slightly startled.

"Right! It's a five minute walk from Abby's to house the Cunningham's, I timed it myself. Alex Cunningham left Abby's house at exactly 12! What do you think?" Sherlock was bursting with energy.

"Sherlock, he already told us that he had just gotten home before it happened! What do you want from it?" John cried in protest. Despite all the night's events, he was now ready to fall asleep, and was in no mood for thinking. Sherlock shook his head feverishly.

"No! John, don't you remember? Williams' feet were toward the gates; he was on his stomach! Don't you see? He was shot in the head, from behind! He was getting ready to leave to go pick up Alex at a predetermined time, when he was attacked! John, really now!" Sherlock was growing agitated, waiting impatiently as John put the pieces together.

"My God, Sherlock! It was Alex, then?" John cried, and Sherlock joined him with a cry of equal energy, but of amusement and victory rather than surprise. He clapped his hands together, chuffed.

"Exactly, John! So, let's go! I can't wait—I've got no patience, so let's go! Now!" Sherlock danced with impatience while John rubbed his brow and rose to his feet. "Hurry John, lets _go!_"

As soon as John had dressed himself, Sherlock pulled him out into the street and hailed a cab with haste; not wasting anytime to speak with Mrs. Hudson, who had woken from all the noise. John blubbered an apology as he was pulled past her and through the door. It was still dark; the light of morning was just barely visible on the horizon. As John squeezed into the cab, he pulled his coat around him. It was cold and bitter; he could see his breath clearly. He shivered, eyeing Sherlock, who was somehow immune to the frigid temperatures.

"Sherlock, what on earth makes you think The Cunninghams are awake at such a miserable hour?" John shivered again as tiny raindrops began to patter against the cab's window. "Why can't I just stay in bed? I'm tired… " John fished for words, fatigue fogging his thought process. "Couldn't this wait till morning…?" He finally finished, pulling his coat around him tightly. His breath was still visible, as was Sherlock's. Despite the cold, John's eyes drooped heavily.

"John, by the time we arrive to the Cunningham's place, it will be well after sunrise. I want to get down there as soon as possible, furthermore…" Sherlock spoke calmly, and John, finding himself too tired to think straight, soon fell asleep, with his head propped against the window.

-

Blackness surrounded the area with utter indefiniteness. There was nothing to be seen, and as dark as was the view, so it was silent. It was like being trapped in a thick smoke that filled the lungs. John's ears rang, and his throat was like sandpaper. _What's going on? _John struggled, but did not move. It was as if he was suspended in time, his mind willing his body to move, but his limbs betraying him. A wicked laugh sliced through the silence, echoing in and out of John's ear with in a deafening pitch. John wanted to hold his head, or cover his ears, but couldn't move. The laughter turned to something of disgust. John could recognize that sing-song voice. The madness and insanity—he knew who it was. _I'll burn the **heart** out of you!_ The voice shook dangerously, and hit John's ears like pins and needles. John gasped from the pain. He wanted to make it stop. He wanted to curl up and go to sleep; to make the pain and terror leave. He felt an impending dread. He knew something was approaching. Unable to move, John grew quiet out of sheer terror.

Still and silent, John was able to see a faint, dim orb approaching. In little time, or what may have been forever, the dim circular shape came into detail. It was not a circle, or a light, but a face. John knew the face—the pale skin, the dark, beady eyes—eyes so filled with madness it was enough to drive a person insane. The very same face he had seen outside his window that morning. John grew frantic, still paralyzed with fear and the grasp of an unknown force. _Hello Johnny boy, did you miss me?_

-

The sun was now up, and the sky shone with the radiance of many different colors, so often as a winter's morning sky produced. A frost had settled among the world, and it glistened with a milky luminance. The air was still dreadfully and bitingly cold, and Sherlock had pulled his knees to his chest and hugged himself to keep warm, burying his face within his scarf. _Doesn't this cab have working heat?_ Sherlock scowled and watched as John squirmed where he had fallen asleep quite some time ago. Perplexed, he wished he could know what John was dreaming about. _Was is to do with the case? Or was it something else?_ Sherlock frowned. _Perhaps that slip of paper from the missing body…._ He looked out the window, growing irritated. He wanted to know what was on that paper. He _needed_ to know, otherwise he might go absolutely insane. Sherlock kicked himself for being so intrusive and pathetic, and averted his gaze back to John, whose face had now turned a brilliant shade of white. _Perhaps I should have let him stay back at the flat…._ Sherlock considered, but shook his head, _no, I'll need him… I know it._

It was not much longer until the cab had entered the estate. Sherlock examined his surroundings from where he sat, and stretched. John was still sleeping restlessly, and so Sherlock shook him awake, "John! Come on, wake up, we're here…." John woke with a start, and had a frenzied look upon his face. In reflex, he grabbed at Sherlock's wrist, and held it tight with ferocity. Sherlock grimaced, with slight amusement. "Come on, John… let's go." He squinted. John's expression softened, and removed his grip, muttering an apology.

Upon entering the estate, it seemed as though John and Sherlock had woken the household. Both the Cunningham's were tying robes over their pajamas and around themselves when they walked down the stairs; both had a haggard, tired look about their faces, as well. John frowned _I'll bet they got more sleep than I did…_ Sherlock noticed John's distasteful expression, and elbowed him. John frowned and attempted to adjust his mood, failing rather miserably.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson… how can we help you?" Mr. Cunningham inquired with a groggy voice, and his son scoffed.

"Why'd you have to come so early? I much rather be sleeping." The young man grumbled, and John's stomach soured. _So would I!_ He grimaced, and waited as Sherlock began to speak.

"Yes, I apologize for the early hour. But, I think I may have a solution to your case, I just needed to touch upon some points to check myself. Now, Your driver didn't have any enemies, I presume? No? That's what I thought. He probably didn't have any friends, either? A young man, paid a good sum to drive his bosses around—that probably left him with little time for an outside, social life. Now… Had he other family?" Sherlock inquired, and Mr. Cunningham shook his head.

"Not at all. Not that we knew of, at least. He never spoke of relatives. We figured he was a runaway, but he insisted that he wasn't. We took his word for it." Mr. Cunningham shrugged, and stuffed his hands into his robe's pockets. Sherlock looked at John and nodded, leaving John a bit more alert and curious. Sherlock folded his hands under his chin.

"I see, so it was a complete stranger that probably knew little of Williams…. If he had no enemies, who else would it have been?" Sherlock raised his brow, and Mr. Cunningham agreed. "Alright then! I believe we have a case closed, gentleman. I just have one more point I'd like to touch upon. Mr. Cunningham, may I please see your room?" Mr. Cunningham's lips puckered.

"May I ask, for what purpose?" His brow furrowed, and he folded his arms. Sherlock shrugged.

"I just need to see a good view of the whole estate, to try and pick out the murderer's entrance and escape routes. You know, where he could have entered and exited the estate? Surely you've a good view from your window?"

"Of course, certainly. Right this way, Mr. Holmes!" Mr. Cunningham beckoned, and the three—John, Sherlock, and Alex Cunningham, followed the middle aged gentleman up the stairs and through a door on the left. John was confused, and certainly curious. He was almost positive that Sherlock had already examined possible points of a weakness in the garden's defense. And if they both already knew that it had in fact been Alex Cunningham that committed the crime, then why should it matter where the man had entered and exited from? _Of course, Sherlock must know what he's doing…_ John decided to play along.

Upon entering the room, Sherlock was already beaming with delight. Oh, Mr. Cunningham—this is that book you were speaking about?" He picked a book off the table at the foot of a bed that was up against the wall. Mr. Cunningham clarified with delight, and detailed the book's contents again. Sherlock nodded, half listening, and set the book back down. "Interesting," he looked about the room, and stared out a large window for a few seconds. "Oh! And Mr. Cunningham, this must be the window, right?" He walked over, and frowned, "oh, dear, I see where your murderer was able to get in and out so easily! Come here and take a look, Mr. Cunningham—you too Alex. Look, see right there?" Sherlock backed out of the way while pointing off in the distance.

John stood by the foot of the bed, curious. All of a sudden, Sherlock slapped a vase that had been sitting on the nightstand, and it fell to the ground, shattering into dozens of sharp, glass pieces. John jumped back, horrified.

"John! You clumsy idiot! I'm so sorry Mr. Cunningham! Perhaps…" Sherlock stooped over the vase and began picking up the shards. John watched, dumbfounded and angry, as Sherlock accused him. Both the Cunninghams raced over to help collect the pieces. "John, get down here and help!" Sherlock stood up, and looked at John with a cold, hard stare. _He's up to something…_ John stuttered, "of course! I'm so sorry! I can pay you for it—I'm so sorry!" He played along, intently picking up the pieces. Before he knew what had happened, both the Cunninghams had raced from the room, cursing.

John stopped, confused, and the door slammed with a click, locking him in the room. _Where did they go? _John jumped up, and tried the door. It didn't budge. He could hear shouting down the stairs—angry and violent. John panicked, _Sherlock! _He threw his weight at the door, trying to ram it open. He could hear Sherlock's startled shouting—however muffled and indistinct. John knew he had to get to Sherlock—what were they doing down there? John threw himself at the door once more, with no luck. The shouts from downstairs were now higher in pitch, and sounded dangerous. John bared his teeth and lunged at the door with all his might. The door finally gave way, and swung open violently. John could now clearly hear signs of a struggle, and he rushed down the stairs without a though, following the echoed voices into the kitchen, where he found Mr. Cunningham and his son huddled over a squirming figure on the ground.

John rushed forward and ripped the men off of Sherlock, who gasped for air once the hands were removed from his neck.

"What the hell! Sherlock..! Are you alright?" John helped Sherlock up, and held him steady while he continued wheezing for air. Holmes nodded, and pointed at both Mr. Cunningham and Alex with an accusing finger.

"You're _both_ guilty! Alex left Abby's early and killed Williams from behind—shot him in the head! I can bet you anything that the very weapon is hidden in this kitchen somewhere. And you, Mr. Cunningham, you covered for your son! The vase upon the night-table that you had so violently was covered in dust, and matched dust on the table, too. Had you REALLY fallen over it, the vase would have broken, or been replaced. The dust told me otherwise. Also, you both claim to have seen the 'murderer' run away, with gun in hand? Thats a funny detail. How was it you could notice the gun, but nothing else about the man? Explain, what you, Williams, and the man Moriarty have in common. Why would he be interested in the man's body? There's no used running, I called upon Lestrade ahead of time. He's waiting down the road a bit; also, Doctor Watson here has his gun. So, explain." Sherlock hissed, regaining his breath and strength. He removed himself from John's helpful grasp, and stood on his own, straightening his scarf. Both Cunninghams froze in their tracks when they saw John aiming his gun at them, and gave in with bitterness and exasperation.

"You! We had no choice, you see? My wife, she's been missing. We all thought she was dead! We were contacted—first by email. Someone had been claiming that they had my wife, and that she was alive. At first I thought it was some sick joke, but then we got a call—it was my wife! She told us that if we wanted to see here again, we'd need to pay money. Lots of it. We had to sell most of our things, to even come close to obtaining such amounts. We were told that we had to… to package the money up… inside Williams…." Mr. Cunningham turned towards his son and started shouting, "It's your fault! I wasn't planning on going through with it! But you went and killed him anyway, and then we had no choice!" Alex became red in the face.

"My mother is missing! I can't let her die because of some driver!" Alex grew threatening in posture, glaring at his old man. "All I had to do was cram the stuff down his throat! I didn't even need a knife!" he faced John and Sherlock again, "my father went ahead and hid the gun while I carried out the task. Once we were finished, we called the police. We only had to generously tip the men who took the body away to keep them quiet. And that was all it took."

Sherlock and John exchanged glances, and eyed the two murderers with disgust. Sherlock dialed the police, "Lestrade, we've got your men. Come get them"


	7. Chapter 6

Sherlock watched as John hurried about the flat, acting like a flustered schoolgirl. He had been pacing back and forth for the last ten minutes, barefooted and in his boxers, obviously distressed.

"John. Are you going to pace all night? Don't you have a date with Sarah in twenty?" Sherlock teased with amusement, watching John grow red in the face. John could tell Sherlock was up to no good, and had just about had enough.

"Sherlock. Shut up. Where the hell are my socks and pants? Seriously." He groaned, running around the flat awkwardly. Sherlock couldn't help himself. The sight of his trusted and ex-military doctor of a flatmate, running around in his unders? _This is priceless..._ Sherlock squinted, his lips quirking at the corners, trying to conceal a smile. He took his blackberry from his pocket, and pointed it at the shorter man.

"John, should I keep record of this moment? You know, like those videos of the cats you showed me on the internet and had insisted were hilarious? Well. Not quite like that. Those weren't funny. But this," he gestured to John, who was now watching him, wild-eyed, "this is... quite remarkable." He finished, unsure of what adjective he should apply to such a situation. John puffed his cheeks, seriously perturbed.

"I swear to God if you do any such thing, I'll …." John couldn't think up a threat, and he went off rather pitifully, nothing else to say. Sherlock snickered in amusement.

"You'll what, John? I don't think I heard you..." He pried, egging on the good doctor. John clamped his jaw, seriously stressed and impatient. He took a deep breath, and counted to ten. _Or five. Close enough. _

"Sherlock. If you don't quit mocking me, I swear to God almighty that I'll... I won't buy any more milk. EVER. You'll have to deal with that one on your own. Also, I won't make you tea anymore. You'll have to manage that yourself, too." He stated with a sense of superiority. Sherlock only sniggered again, rolling his eyes.

"John. Honestly. Don't you think I can take care of myself? What do you think I did before you came around?" He retorted. John just sighed, and went about looking for his clothing again.

"Well, seeing you're a 'master of observation,' don't you think you could be a chap and help me find my damn pants and socks? I swear, This shouldn't be that hard. They were in the bloody bathroom when I had gotten into the shower, I'm almost positive I put them there... But, if not then I must have left them out here somewhere..." he more or less asked himself, still scurrying about, looking in every single nook and cranny in the sitting room.

"John, have you even bothered looking in your room?" Sherlock asked, watching as his flatmate groaned and ran for the stairs, calling out behind him that yes, he had, but he supposes its worth checking again. Sherlock rocked back and forth on his feet for a moment, bouncing up and down. _Of course he knew where John's jeans were. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock needed them. _Sherlock looked at his watch. "John, just grab another pair of trousers, I'm sure you've got plenty." He shouted through the ceiling of the sitting room. He could hear John muttering in vain in the room above as a dresser drawer opened. Sherlock smiled. _So sorry, John... _He looked at his violin case from the corner of his eye- John's jeans were hidden in plain sight, sitting right underneath. He walked over to the fireplace, however, when John—now wearing pants- plodded back down the stairs, directing his focus on the flames. He could hear John sighing behind him.

"Well. I'm short a pair of pants. And that still doesn't explain where my socks are. Damnit, those were my only clean pair..." John growled, rubbing his brow in utter frustration. Sherlock pursed his lips for a moment in contemplation. _Ah, what the hell. _He reached into his dressing gown pocket and pulled out John's pair of socks, and walked over to the doctor, wagging them in his face. John's expression was unreadable for a moment.

"Ah. Okay. And, how long have you had these?" John asked, miffed, snatching the socks out of his flatmate's hands. Sherlock shrugged and threw himself onto the sofa.

"This whole time. Didn't you suspect it in the least?" Sherlock stated dryly, picking up his sudoku-cube and fiddling with it. John closed his eyes, counted to ten again, and sighed.

"Nope, I didn't. I guess I didn't figure that my flatmate would go sneaking into the loo while I was showering to steal my clothing. Its like Uni all over again, God..." John groaned, feeling like he was dealing with a child. He sighed again. "Sherlock, what the hell. Do you have my pants?" He asked, sitting down to put his socks on. Sherlock shrugged.

"No, John. Do you see your pants anywhere near me? I don't have them." He kept his composure, not afraid of telling a white lie. He tossed the sudoku-cube onto the coffee table, and began playing with his fingers, folding them and pressing them together; biting at his nails. John shook his head. _It really is Uni all over again. _

"Well, Sherl, I'm going to be late now. Taking Sarah to the cinemas tonight. See you later, eh?" John finished tying his shoes, and threw on his jacket. Sherlock only grunted a response as he walked out the door.

Sherlock lie still for a few minutes, fiddling with the strings on his pajama pants. He stared at the licking flames of the fire, watching as they ate at the logs, angry and ravenous. Angry and wicked and cruel and insane. They were coming for him- burning his eyes and fingers. He could feel the flames hot on his face, and the light was blinding and terrifying and somehow deafening. He could hear screaming—John—screaming. He could see nothing, but felt like he was baking in an oven and jabbed at with the points of a thousand syringes. He could feel it all and it burned, and his head hurt, and he was nauseous. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, curling up into a ball and burying his face against the backrest of the sofa. _Stop, just stop, _He pulled himself into an even tighter ball, shivering. "Damn." He opened his eyes, half expecting to see a pair of maddening beady black eyes staring straight back at him. Luckily, it was just the sofa. Sherlock stretched back out onto his back, looking at the ceiling. He covered his face with his hands, breathing shakily. _Damn._

John returned home from his date with Sarah in the wee hours of the morning. They had gone out for a bite to eat, and then gone to catch a late movie, which ended up being terrible and neither of them enjoyed it. Of course, they were together, and at least that was something. Between running after Sherlock like crazy, helping Sherlock on cases, and generally taking care of Sherlock, John hardly ever got to see her. Their dates were really quite enjoyable—however brief- and were a breath of fresh air. Almost like a lunch-break during a work shift. Gives John time to not only be with someone he's really interested in, but it gives him a break from Sherlock, too.

John shuffled his feet into the flat, trying to be quiet to he wouldn't wake Sherlock- that is, if Sherlock was even asleep, which he often wasn't. However, he was not sprawled on the sofa, so that meant he must've gone off to bed. John shrugged and hung his coat. He took his shoes off quietly, the floor bitterly cold on his socked feet. John stepped in front of the fireplace, where the flames had died to glowing embers. _I wonder why Sherlock tried to make off with my socks..._ John pondered, extremely curious. _How exactly did he get my things from the loo while I was in the shower? How did I not notice him in there..._ John gulped, feeling his face flush. He certainly didn't take well to the thought of his flatmate being in the bathroom the same time he was in the shower. John shook it off and sighed, didn't really matter anyway. He rubbed his hands together, feeling the meager warmth of the coals, and padded into the kitchen, flipping the light on.

Busying himself with setting the kettle on, John almost didn't hear the front door open. Luckily, with his trained senses, John was able to make out the 'click' of the handle as it shut, and a step onto the floor. John froze. He listened, wary of who had just come in, and grabbed for a knife. He didn't have his gun with him- it was in his drawer in his room. _God, what if its Moriarty, or something?_ John surprised himself with the thought, and became even more alert. If it was, he would kill him without hesitation.

John waited. The kettle pattered softly on the stove, and the light flickered. He listened and waited until he heard a succession of footsteps, plodding proudly on the floor as if they owned the place. John focused, pressed against the kitchen wall, and took a deep breath, slowly peering around the corner. John's hair stood on end at the back of his neck. He could feel his gut plunge, and the world dipped. Terror pushed adrenaline throughout John's body as he witnessed a tall, looming figure standing in front of the fireplace, silhouetted by the gentle glow. John swallowed, watching the motionless figure's back. The intruder was very tall, was wearing what appeared to be an extremely well-worn and torn pair of trousers, and a bulky, tan jacket. He looked like he could've been a construction worker, though much more ominous due to size and circumstance. John watched as the figure walked from the dying fire, and headed towards Sherlock's room. John could feel his face drain of colour, _Please, don't go there, just leave. _He begged silently, wanting the man to go. All John's senses were on alert, and when the man reached for Sherlock's bedroom-door handle, John came from the kitchen, knife in hand. He wore the most severe and threatening face he could muster.

"Dont. Move." John growled, stalking forward, making his way to intercept this strange man. All he wanted to do was get between him and the door, that was all he needed. John bared his teeth, knife at the ready. The intruder stopped dead in his tracks, and turned to face John. His face was set with deep scars that cut through his awkwardly bushy eyebrows. His skin was pocked with various freckles and marks, and he had the most pathetic, disheveled beard that John had ever seen. John's serious gaze didn't leave the man. All the while, pointing the knife, he ushered the stranger into the middle of the sitting room, away from Sherlock's door.

"What are you doing?" John asked from between his teeth awkwardly. Now that he had the intruder in a less threatening position, he didn't really know what to do. He just wanted him out of the flat—now.

The man didn't answer, but only smiled. John noticed that he had blood running from his nose, and-_ wait a second... his nose..._ John furrowed his brow, studying the man before him. His nose, while fat and swollen, seemed to be peeling in quite a singular way. "What the hell's happened to your nose? Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?" John asked, flabbergasted. The hideous man laughed in an all-too-familiar voice.

"John! What are you doing up so late?" John dropped the knife to his side, and threw it onto the coffee table. He threw his arms up in utter defeat, flicking on the light switch and brightening the entire room. The man standing before him was no stranger.

"What the HELL, Sherlock! I could've hurt you! What the bloody hell are you doing dressed like that, and my... my trousers!" John's face crumpled in frustration. "Damnit, Sherl, those are my _trousers!_ You've gone and ripped them and they don't even fit you," John ranted as Sherlock removed his false beard, nose, and scars, "and they're covered in blood!" John spat. His eyes widened. "Wait up. Are you alright then? Why're you bleeding?" He walked up to Sherlock, examining his nose. Sherlock tried to wave John off, but John wouldn't have it, so he stood there like a child whose mother wants to wipe something off their face.

"John, its fine. Just a bloody nose is all, really. Please, calm down. God, you're like my mother, bugger off will you?" Sherlock complained. John backed off with a disappointed look on his face.

"Sherlock, should I even ask?" He stood back, watching the curious man. Sherlock smiled and shook his head. John heard the kettle begin to go off, whistling.

"Not now. Lets get some rest, I'll tell you in the morning." Sherlock pat John on the shoulder as he passed by, and went into his bedroom, calling out behind him, "goodnight, John."


	8. Chapter 7

"Alright, so. Then, tell me," John sipped at his tea as Sherlock sat down at the table across from him, "What exactly were you up to last night that required you to steal my jeans and bloody your nose?" John crossed his arms. The late morning sun shone through the window to John's left, leaving frames of light around his plate of breakfast he had prepared for himself, and the stack of newspapers Sherlock had gathered in hopes of any interesting crime-related articles. Sherlock thumbed at his mug of tea, staring into its depths.

"Well. I went and visited that man who had been loitering at Daisy's. Had a nice 'chat,'" Sherlock explained, a crooked smile on his face. He rubbed his nose, and leaned back in his chair. "Headed out after you left, got to the shop by eleven. He and his gang were huddled 'round, obvious as ever. Just like the girl said, they didn't care for discretion. There were five of them, all together, and they had the same suit-and-glasses look. Three of them were American- I believe they were New Yorkers, if I've exacted their accents. The other two- 'Mr. Obvious,' and one other man- were native Londoners. Though, 'Mr. Obvious' in particular has Irish in his blood, but I fear that's irrelevant as far as I'm concerned. I got into earshot, and, well. Unfortunately I didn't go so unnoticed. You'd be surprised how cross a group of men get when a 'homeless' man crosses their paths- even when they're not giving any effort to keep quiet. Hence, the nose." Sherlock pointed to his nose before picking up the first newspaper on the stack, and opened it with a loud crinkling sound. John waited patiently for about a minute, but when Sherlock didn't continue his story, he spoke up.

"So. Other than the number of men and the clothes they wore, what did you find out?" he leaned on his elbows on the table, taking a bite of fried egg. He placed his fork down onto the plate with a clink, and sat back, waiting with his hands in his lap. Sherlock still wasn't paying attention to him, absorbed in the paper. John crossed his arms. "Sherlock. Hey, you listening? Sherl? Anything interesting in the paper, then?" When Sherlock still didn't answer, John stood, and took the paper out of Sherlock's hands. Sherlock's eyes were distant, and far from vacant. John waited, and watched as Sherlock's gaze slowly met his own. Sherlock blinked.

"I'm sorry, had you said something?" Sherlock furrowed his brows, snatching the paper back out of John's hands. John rubbed his temples. _Insufferable..._

"No, nothing. Nothing at all. Only curious as to what you figured out about the men who bloodied your nose last night. Any new leads as to who our briber could be?" John began sarcastically, his patience having already worn thin. Sherlock's eyes brightened with a quirk of a smile, and he tossed the morning paper to the side.

"Ah! Yes, I figured out that the man in question- the one I like to call 'Mr. Obvious,'- is under someone's employ. When he approached me, I observed that his hands were rough, which says he has worked with his them for quite some time, and recently. Now, a manual labourer doesn't typically spend the majority of his time standing in front of a flower shop, especially not in an expensive suit." Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth as he relayed the information that he had observed the night before. John frowned and was about to cut in, but not before Sherlock continued. "Now. This means that he's recently been hired to stand and look pretty and gather information- and he's paid rather generously, I'd say."

"Yeah, but what if he just happens to be... well... I was going to say waiting for a date that never shows, but then... why would he meet and chat with a bunch of Americans in the middle of the night... and he'd have to be really desperate..." joked lightly, and Sherlock shrugged.

"There are endless 'possibilities,' John, I'm merely sorting out the probabilities and organizing things in ways that make the most sense and are the most evident. This man, John, is completely irrelevant to what we're looking for. He's simply a puppet, so to speak. But! Before they caught sight of me, I was able to get a name." Sherlock smiled deviously. John shut his eyes, _Well why didn't you just say so?_

"Well? What's the name?" John inquired, curious and a bit impatient. Sherlock's lip twitched into another smile, and his eyes gleamed at John.

"Milverton." Sherlock said curtly. John blinked, and looked at the ceiling.

"Right. So, Milverton hired this man- 'Mr. Obvious'... to gather information about Daisy Cunningham? Make sure she was an easy target, right?," he bounced on the balls of his feet gently. "and... Milverton is...?" John asked, never having heard the name before. Sherlock spun in his chair to face John, his face lit with excitement.

"Francis S. Milverton: notorious blackmailer. Villainous, snide, and—in Lestrade's case-  
><em>untouchable<em>." Sherlock sipped his tea and dropped it back onto the table noisily. "John, I hope you don't have plans tonight. I'll need your help." John sat back down and stabbed at his eggs with his fork.

"No, nothing in particular. What've you got planned?" he sipped at his tea, inviting the warmth it gave. Sherlock's face tilted and darkened in an unnerving manner, and his expression grew wild with severity and uncontainable, devious excitement.

"Robbery, John. Bring your gun."


	9. Chapter 8

Having a strong moral code, John had wracked his brain the whole day on the concept of robbery. Was it still so wrong, when they were robbing for a sense of justice? Sherlock had explained that in order to properly convict Francis Milverton, they'd have to be stealthy, and that they'd have to break in. A man as ruthless as Milverton was bound to be wary, and there was no valid evidence for Sherlock to hand to the police in request of a warrant. Besides, in the eyes of the police, there in fact was no 'case' to be looked into at all. Sherlock reassured John that the only way they would get anything out of Milverton was to either find enough evidence to have him taken in for questioning, or take any important documents that may guide them to the next lead in this web of crime.

"If we're able to accomplish _both _of these things tonight, then I'll be right chuffed. So. We're going to look for anything that ties him to the abduction and, likely, murder of Daisy Cunningham. We're also looking for anything in relation to Williams the driver, or anything linking him to Moriarty." Sherlock informed John as he paced the dimly lit sitting room, often stopping in front of the fireplace to stare at the skull that was perched on the mantle. John shifted nervously in his chair, and rubbed his chin.

"Well, how will we know what those things look like? And where we'll even find them?" John asked, feeling anxious. He knew that what they were doing, though illegal, was the right thing to do. He had been unsure of it until now, but the intensity in Sherlock's eyes left John feeling determined and justified. Made him feel _right._ They were going to bring this bastard in, no matter what it took. Even if the means of it did seem a bit... dodgy. John glanced at his watch. Half midnight. Sherlock had said they'd head out at twelve, so as to arrive at the Milverton estate around one. Sherlock disappeared into his room, and emerged a few minutes later holding strips of black cloth in his hand.

"It could be anything, John: papers, money, footprints, Williams' body, or—dead or alive—Daisy. In probability, a man with such caution as Milverton would keep documents or papers in a safe or locked drawer—those would probably be in his bedroom, or a room very near there. Perhaps a home office, if he has one—which I wouldn't doubt. As for bodies... I can't imagine a wealthy man keeping rotting corpses on his premises, but I can't rule that out yet. Anything is a possibility." Sherlock extended his hand out to John, in which he grasped one of the black bits of cloth. "Sorry for the crudeness of it, John. I'd give us more elaborate disguises, but I don't know if that would be necessary, had we the time. These will have to do. Besides, we're going to do our best to _not_ get caught anyway, alright?" Sherlock smiled crookedly as John took the fabric out of his hands. John laughed nervously, examining the mask.

"Jesus, Sherl... you really think this is going to work?" He stared at the cloth with amused and horrified skepticism. Sherlock chuckled and tied his own black rag around his face, shrugging.

"I certainly hope so." He stated flatly. John tied his cloth around the back of his head with steady fingers. He looked up at Sherlock. Their gazes locked for a few awkward seconds, before they both burst out in nervous giggles.

"Sherlock!" John mused, completely taken aback, "You look like sodding 'Zoro!' he cried. Of course, it wasn't so funny, but both he and Sherlock's nerves were extremely high-strung. Sherlock joined in laughing, though John wasn't quite so sure he even understood the reference. The thought of Sherlock still laughing despite his lack knowledge of the film 'Zoro' made John laugh even harder, to which Sherlock responded the same. They were both gasping for air within a few moments, wiping at their eyes. "Oh, god Sherl. What the hell are we doing...?" John asked, a twinge of nerve, disbelief, and excitement in his voice.

"Come on. We'll do fine. Got your gun?" Sherlock asked, straightening his expression. It wasn't often he was able to laugh like that- he usually wouldn't be so anxious, either. However, the thought of breaking into someone's house was thrillingly attractive to him. _What a brilliant thief you'd make out to be. _Sherlock played with the mask on his face. _You're romanticizing. Stop it._ He breathed deeply, and led John out the flat, each wearing their rubbish disguises and between them, carrying a gun and torch.

-

The neighbourhood area in which Milverton lived was very posh. The houses were like tiny mansions- ornate and massive. The streets were lit with elegant Parisian-styled lights, drawing the community into a romantic dream. There were no problems in the worlds of the people who owned these houses. Ideally, their lives were like individual fairytales. Of course, there was no such thing as absolute perfection- but as things go, this was as close to the definition of the word as possible. John watched, mouth agape. He wished he could walk about here in the daytime- felt like he was in a storybook.

Sherlock nudged him to attention. They had to be quiet now. The streets were pitch dark, save for the light cast by the beautiful lamps. Not a single house was active; all the lights had long since been turned off. The night sky was lit dazzlingly with billions of stars, enough to make you want to reach up and touch them; fly away with them. _You don't see this kind of night sky in London._ John mused. He followed Sherlock down a long street, towards the very last house, which stood almost the largest. Sherlock pressed up against a large stone wall that surrounded the estate, and pulled John against it with him, signaling for him to stay quiet. In the night-time shadow of the house, there was very minimal visibility, and all other senses were heightened. John could feel the heat of Sherlock's breath against his cheek, could hear his nervous breathing. Sherlock spoke in a hushed voice.

"Alright, John. How do you think you'd qualify as a chimney sweep?" John could picture the pale man smirking in the darkness, could almost hear it. John stood in dumb silence.

"What? You mean me? Down a chimney?" John asked, incredulous. Chimney sweeps were all skin-and-bones, there was no way he would be able to fit down a chimney as they could. A hand gripped his wrist.

"Its not as small of a chimney as you're thinking, John." Sherlock reassured him. John shook his head.

"No, Sherl, it wouldn't work... there's got to be another way in." He began to panic. He wasn't about to ruin the whole investigation. He wouldn't allow that. The grip on John's wrist squeezed gently, and shook a bit in a calm way.

"Right. I'll open a window for you. We could enter through the front door, but that's a bit risky. High end place like this would have an alarm system. I'll go down through the chimney, and open a window for you. Probably one closest to the chimney." Sherlock explained. John was about to comment, when he felt coldness quickly replace where Sherlock's breath had kept his cheek warm; nothingness where he had gripped his wrist. John could hear footsteps dashing away, but still couldn't see anything._Damnit!_ John panicked and jogged blindly after the footsteps. His eyes were barely adjusted, but he could see a break in the stone wall, likely where a gate was. There was no gate, however—merely a gap in the wall. John stepped through warily- didn't want to set off any alarms.

He still couldn't see where Sherlock had run off to, and his mind whirled with idiocy. He pushed all manner of confused thought out of mind, and ran silently towards the house. By now, John could see things in the form of blotches of colour—paleness and darkness. He was barely able to make out where the chimney began on the west side of the house and climbed to the roof. John didn't know how Sherlock planned on getting all the way up there, but made his way to the chimney to wait anyway.

It was a long wait. Every second felt like thirty. John grew incredibly anxious and impatient. What if Sherlock hadn't run to the house after all, and he was here all alone? What if he had fallen off the roof or got stuck in the chimney, or someone spotted him? John had to fight the urge to walk up to the front door and knock. _Excuse me, but is my friend inside, and is he alright?' _John suppressed a nervous chuckle. He was terribly worried. _What's taking him so long?_ He stood, hunched, trying to push the anxiety and bitter cold from mind. In a few more moments, John's worries were solved. A window not ten feet away opened gingerly, and Sherlock stuck his head out—a dark figure in the night. John approached the window, and Sherlock held out a pair of rubber gloves for him to put on.

"Wouldn't want prints anywhere," Sherlock whispered, almost inaudibly. He helped John in through the window, making sure that their every move was as silent as if they weren't even there. Sherlock picked out the front door in the darkness. If they needed to get out, they would go that way. _No time for windows and chimneys in an emergency. _

The inside of the house was darker than out. John could barely see the things around him. He could make out a pale blur to be Sherlock's face, and some shadowy boxes that must have been furniture. He closed his eyes, hoping that once he opened them, they'd have adjusted as necessary. To his surprise, upon opening his eyes, his vision had improved startlingly. It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock had only just switched on his torch, but kept it dim. Sherlock grabbed John by the wrist again, and led him silently through the house. On the first floor, they found a kitchen, pantry, sitting room, and a dining room; nowhere for secret papers. It was to John's dismay that Sherlock led him towards the stairwell next. They had to go up.

Sherlock motioned for John to follow his lead, and began ascending the stairs in an awkward fashion. He only stepped at the very far sides of the stairs, and closely to where step met step. These were places least stepped on—therefore, less wear; less noise. John did as best he could to mimic Sherlock's every step. He wasn't able to make it up all the way completely silent as Sherlock had, but the squeaking stairs had gone unnoticed by the sleeping household.

Up the stairs, John followed Sherlock down a long corridor. Sherlock peaked in through what doorways he could, and stifled a satisfied hum once he had found what they were looking for—a nice little home office at the very end of the hall. There was a large desk, tons of bookcases, and even a fireplace. The wall opposite the door was decorated with several heavily-draped windows, and there was hunting memorabilia littered everywhere. Sherlock ushered John into the room and shut the door behind him, brightening the torch and setting it on the desk.

"Alright, John. Milverton's bedroom is down the complete other end of the hall. As long as we're very quick and very, very quiet, we can be out of here no problem. Now, you look through the desk drawers, I'll search for a safe." Sherlock whispered into John's ear with a tickling sensation. John dutifully sat behind the desk, which was situated against the far side of the room. It was a big, thick desk made of some fancy and sturdy wood—must've been very expensive. John rummaged through the papers on top of the desk first: bills, letters, a couple newspapers. Nothing of too much interest. John was rifling through everything, squinting in the poor light to read anything written on the pages: who the letters were from, what headlines were in the papers- he hoped to find something interesting, but-

"John!" Sherlock hissed quietly, breaking the heavy and still silence. Startled, John jumped, and accidentally knocked a paperweight off the table. It landed with a heavy thud, and both men froze, their ears pricking for any sounds down the hall. John fumbled a bit, tried to step over and around the corner to pick up the paperweight. Clumsily, He had gotten his foot tangled in the desk-lamp's electrical chord, and it also was uprooted from its place on the desk. It landed on the floor with a very distinct shattering noise, loud enough to make their ears throb a bit.

_SHIT._ John threw a look of 'oh my god, I'm so sorry!' at Sherlock, whose expression was that of horror and anticipation. They didn't have to wait long before they heard footsteps. Sherlock swore under his breath, and John rushed to make the desk look like it had before they had gotten there. He left the lamp on the floor, as it was smashed, and Sherlock shoved him behind one of the massive curtains. John watched in horror as Sherlock ran back to the middle of the room to grab their torch. The footsteps were right outside the door now—heavy and dragging with fatigue. Sherlock ducked behind another curtain across from John, and turned the light out. They waited, breathless; the air hung heavy and sharp, like a thick blanket of broken glass and needles.

John gulped. He couldn't hear anything other than his own nervous breathing. _Too loud, you're too loud!_ John held his breath. He'd ruined the whole thing, and now they were going to be caught, arrested, lord knows. John felt his stomach go sour. Not only was he anxious and frustrated, but he felt angry too. He watched like a tiger watches his prey, waiting silently, as the door opened, and the light was flicked on. Blinking back the painful brightness, John had to remind himself not to move. He hoped that his and Sherlock's hiding places were adequate. Looking to his right, he made eye contact with Sherlock, who looked about as rigid and tense as he felt. Sherlock dipped his head in a short nod, and turned back to look at Milverton, who had, since he turned the light on, stood still in the doorway with a vacant expression on his face.

He was a barrel-chested man, probably in his late fifties. He was tall and his graying dark-brown hair was trimmed professionally; he wore a dark red dressing gown, a pair of navy pajama pants, and matching red slippers. John was able to peer around the curtain and watch as Milverton's groggy and confused expression evolved into that of panic and terror. He jerkily took a few steps to examine the smashed lamp, but seemed to change his mind and instead dashed to where Sherlock had been busying himself. In the bright light, John was able to see a large safe positioned on a bookshelf, the door slightly ajar. John glanced to Sherlock, and felt his stomach drop. Sherlock had a look of manic frustration on his face-he had neglected to shut the safe door.

John looked back at Milverton, who, having realized that some visitor in the night had broken in, was looking around the room with a haunting expression. John's heart raced and his breath was short. It was horrifying and thrilling and brilliantly terrifying. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, yet he was frozen in anticipation. Milverton's sharp eyes explored the room, and slowly came to a stop. His eyes rested warily on the curtain Sherlock hid behind. Sherlock was pressed against the wall as flatly as possible- he didn't dare peak from behind to see what was happening. John exchanged glances with him, clarifying that Milverton had suspected them, and was slowly approaching. John closed his eyes, and fingered his gun. He wasn't sure of what he was doing, but listened carefully. He took note of every soft footfall Milverton made—he was alarmingly close now. John could smell the smoke of a pipe on the man's clothing, and hear his uneven, apprehensive breathing. He heard a click of a gun.

_That can't be right,_ John's eyes flew open, and saw Sherlock standing, frozen. Milverton had lifted his hiding place from the wall, and pointed a small revolver at him. Sherlock lifted his hands up very slowly, refusing to make eye contact with John over Milverton's shoulder. The stout man had his back to John, who also had gun in hand. Seeing Sherlock in a vulnerable position, John's instincts went wild, and his gun came crashing down into the back of the neck of the offending man. Instantly, Milverton melted to the floor with a thud, his knees like rubber. Sherlock leaped backwards, startled only for a moment, and nodded his thanks.

"Hurry, we need to get out of here," He dashed back to the safe, messing through the papers inside, rapidly. John checked the physical state Milverton was in—just unconscious-before continuing his frantic search through the desk drawers. He managed to find a note from America, which he thought was strange, and stuffed it into his pockets. Sherlock had also taken various documents from the safe that could prove useful, and shut it. _This was reckless. Very very reckless._ Sherlock seemed to read John's mind as he did a sweep of the room with his eyes, taking in the damage and situation. Sherlock scowled. "John, we can't leave this like this. Help me tidy up, a little..."

Then next three minutes was spent frantically returning everything into proper order. The lamp was left on the floor—there was nothing they could to about it. The room was clean as it had been before, and Sherlock made John help carry the unconscious man back to his room, and drop him in bed. It was a lucky thing that the man wasn't married, or else they would have had to leave him lying on the floor of his study.

If all went according to their sloppy and horrific plan, then Milverton would wake up with a terrible headache in the morning. He would see the bottle of liquor on his nightstand and assume he had some to drink before going to sleep; his drink was the source of his headache, and the events of the night would have all been just a 'crazy dream.' If they were even more lucky, Milverton would pass off the broken lamp as the result of a clumsy housemaid. 'I'm nearly certain he has a cat, anyway. There was fur all over his robe. Maybe he'll blame the cat,' Sherlock had suggested. It wouldn't be until Milverton decides the check on the contents of his safe that he would realize that he had been robbed.

Having arranged everything in a half-pleasing manner, they both slipped silently out of the house. John, through the window; Sherlock, the chimney.


End file.
